To The Sickest Bastard i Knew
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Dear Child Gregoriy:

Every single time I lay down my head to sleep I see those wreched Gallows.

I see that bloody sun drench the gnarled timbers of that damned engine, oozing upon it as it churns, as it whines, spits; I see it beat down upon both the watchers and the observers alike. Like they deserve to be. I see those spattered planks span the horizon, splattered by the sweat and the tears and the piss and the vomit. And I see the Children, dressed in those rough sinewcloth cloaks, marching their oblations into the engine's gaping maw, the stewards wrenching all-who-gaze's heads to abrupt attention, to pull them fully into the spectacle.

And I looked.

And I burned.

The corpse of the newest victim was pulled limp out of the Noose, and, and then She was pulled up.

I was five. But you knew that, didn't you? You filthy god damn animals didn't even give her clothes to cover herself. You just paraded her up and covered her head with that wretched bag of skin, and you placed her into that fucking Noose.

That fucking Noose.

I have to pass that thing every time I head into town, that loop of eternally bloody viscera ever squirming. Every time, there's a new corpse in it, sucked completely dry save for the excretions, and I pause for a second and have to take it down because you found out it gets stronger when it's seen. I see its tongue dart from the intestine and probe the air, the flesh, searching still for fresh blood.

Pointing straight at me.

I'm lucky that I don't have to hear them. But I still hear it every fucking time.

I hear my mother's screams of agony and anger. I hear those bagmuffled curses from the top of her lungs that lasted far too long for a dying woman. That's all anyone ever did. That's all anyone ever does. They just fucking scream, and they writhe, and they claw. She screamed. She screamed at God — they all do —; she screamed at her parents; she screamed at the Children. And she screamed at me.

She screamed about how she would have never gotten stuck in this fucking nowhere town if she weren't unfortunate enough to get knocked up with a worthless daughter child like me. She screamed at herself for not throwing me into the orphanage, or into the river, or to the dogs.

And then she stopped screaming.

I've tried so fucking hard to forget that, but I see her again every night, every single fucking night. And I get angry. I go to sleep angry, and I wake up angry. At her. At the Children. At God. At myself. At myself even if I know I didn't deserve that, didn't deserve all that pain that still haunts me.

And I just… I remember the dreams the night after.

I remember seeing God. And I remember it burning, burning my head, my eyes, my skin, burning with the fires of Gehenna. And I can't, I couldn't help but think, in the agony, that she was right.

And it all makes me so fucking angry. The loneliness. The isolation. But I woke up and I left and you came up to me and you said you wanted me. And I wanted to be wanted. And I wanted you to fucking pay. So I went with you.

Every night I stayed in your church, I stayed up as long as I could passing a knife between my hands, thinking, dreaming awake on how, when, I could disembowel you and strangle you with your entrails.

Other nights I sat up with the blade pointed at myself. Just staring, thinking of slitting my throat, my stomach right in front of you, and making you watch me die.

But as much as I wanted to die I knew you'd get some sick fucking pleasure out of that. I've learned now that that's what you wanted. That's all you ever wanted.

All that hate, all that pain, all that memory stewing inside of me, grew me into the instrument of pure rage you wanted, fed off. That instrument to perfectly slot into the machinations of God, to make me into a prophet after your own heart.

But no matter how much I want you dead, I want you to feel like you failed, want to prove you wrong even harder.

So I'm leaving.

I'm taking my hatred and my pain and I'm going into the wilderness to find a somewhere you aren't, where these memories and dreams aren't, or to die with hope in my heart for once in my wretched life. I'm going to see different trees, to crash upon different waves, to feel different rains on my skin. To find different people, different towns, different flags. To lay upon the pavements of places I could've only dreamed of before. To witness the Sun, the stars, in array I've never conceived.

And I'm going to forget.

See you in hell,

- Y. P. nobody

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